


Even So

by rednihilist



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Answers the question: what if Bane were also up there on the mountain in <i>Batman Begins</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even So

**Author's Note:**

> 'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.
> 
> Quote by Ferdinand Foch: "The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire." 
> 
> A/N: I don't even know. . .

Less than a week by his estimation, five days, and the man is already sleeping soundly every night because he's quite clearly exhausted and rising every morning alert because he's obviously excited. He is enthusiastic, willing, fully engaged, absorbing information like a veritable sponge. He tries; he tries so very hard, and it is clear to them all that this man is a wise choice. Bruce Wayne is succeeding. He does very well.

 

He was a good find. Sharp eyes caught this one. No one can deny that Ducard has a way with people—when he wants to.

 

Unlike the others, though, he himself does not fawn over this new prince. Part of it is indeed jealousy, but his main reasoning is far simpler and foretells worlds more damage and hurt in his future. He is ashamed of himself, embarrassed, anxious but not in a good way. He feels again dread, which had all but become a stranger to him these past several years here in the mountains.

 

It is foolish to lie to oneself, and so he doesn't, but that doesn't necessitate a constant examination on his part of every nuance of his personality either. Self-reflection is not a hobby for him. He is no narcissist, after all, and while it's true he cares little for others' company, he still has no desire to live solely inside his own head. If nothing else, it remains a place of horrors, memories ugly and foul, and he knows what's there. He doesn't need to roll in the offal like a dog.

 

He is not an animal. They say otherwise but are mistaken. He is almost certain they know they lie with every word to this effect, but he will not challenge them over it. He frightens them, and it is enough. It is more than enough.

 

The prince flourishes and yet flounders in odd ways. He does not boast, apparently, is not overly confident in his abilities, and yet the men call him arrogant and green. They neither trust nor respect him. Too young, they say, too pampered. Bruce Wayne, it seems, is not yet scarred enough to their liking.

 

Ducard will have his way, though. His will is The League. The rest of them are the Shadows trailing after, stretched far and thin and yet substantial. They are trained well, these, Ducard's puppets.

 

His own existence is no longer unpleasant, but it lacks purpose. He is without cause, without passion.

 

She took it with her when she left and has not seen fit to return—it.

 

And he is no animal, no beast, as they say, no dog, but perhaps he does have a dog's loyalty, a mutt, a mongrel, something dirty and unpleasant that only one person ever. . .

 

He is bored and useless, and he has no desire whatsoever to wait idly by until he is summoned forth to act as muscle and force for a new acolyte. It has happened before and will undoubtedly again if he makes no protest. If he allows it, they will attempt to mold him too, as they do their fresh recruits—as Ducard personally molds the princeling. These Shadows would make of him that beast he is not. They seek to burn away the impurities with their cleansing fire of self-righteousness, and they would give him purpose, but it would be begrudgingly so, disdainfully, as though he should be grateful for whatever scraps they deign throw down to him.  He would forever see through their charade of acceptance to the rotten contempt beneath.

 

He is no man's slave, and so before he can be further humiliated he takes his leave—if only temporarily.

 

It is good on the ice, in the mountains. He slips and in catching himself cuts his hands to ribbons, and the pain is welcome. He does not enjoy it per se, as some twisted minds surely do, but he relishes the proof that he does feel. It is easy to doubt, easier still to forget and ignore, and the blessings of the League are surpassed only by its theft.

 

They gave him a mask, and in return they demand his obedience. Is it not simply sad then that it's no longer his to give away? Is it not also funny that, try as they did initially, he is now no more theirs than he ever truly was his own?

 

She left, the little thief, and she took part of him with her. He hopes she will never come back, that she will find something to keep her far away, that she will forget or ignore what it is they do up here in the mountains and live a glorious and fulfilling life. What else he feels is no real cause for concern. It is only the part of him still lodged within his body longing to be complete because he is not a mindless beast, but perhaps he understands the desire to be one. Perhaps he only longs for peace.

 

However, it is not wise to lie to oneself, and so he cleans and binds his hands on the mountain, and then he takes the slower route back to the League. Twenty-two days, he is gone.

 

And three months after the prince's arrival, he is summoned by Ducard, and he answers.

 

"Bane, we call him," Ducard says, gesturing for him to come closer. Once he is within arm's reach, Ducard adds, "He is fierce and dedicated and should prove a—most challenging teacher."

 

The prince is already dripping with sweat but visibly excited to begin anew. There is no smile or laughter, but then this is a different student. They are all different students, different from the rest the world over and different from his first.

 

Some things are irreplaceable.

 

"Bruce," the prince says politely, even going so far as to hold out his hand.

 

Ducard laughs, loudly and for longer than is polite, and that is why he in turn reaches out and shakes the hand before him.

 

"Leave us," he then directs at Ducard, and, after several strained seconds, the man does indeed depart.

 

He does not release Bruce's hand, however, once only they two stand in the room. Instead, he reaches up and places his other hand around the man's throat, tight but not restricting, a challenge, a test, a way to gauge this pupil's stage of training.

 

Bruce does prove a good find, but he is no Shadow. The fire already burns too hot inside him.

 

Perhaps it will touch him too. He would welcome its lick of heat, its singeing of his edges. It would be more proof that he is alive, that he does feel, even if what he feels is—rage, despair, misery, doubt, yearning—unpleasant.

 

No dog is he, rather, a moth, and some—some burn so brightly and with such passion that it is to know bliss just to be near them, never mind being consumed by their force. It is impossible to ignore or forget that fire which consumes all in its path, that fire which consumed him long ago.

 

No struggling against his hold, no futile efforts at posturing, and Bruce has indeed proven his worth—his mettle.

 

"Do you know," he asks calmly, only slightly easing the pressure on Bruce Wayne's throat, "what is the most powerful weapon on earth?"

 

It takes a few seconds for the prince to realize he is expected to respond, that the question was not meant rhetorically. It always takes awhile for them to learn, so he is not surprised, only mildly disappointed.

 

Then comes the reply, a whispered, "Love," and at least it's a declaration. He cannot abide being answered with questions, even if they are the right ones. Much better to have the wrong answer than none at all.

 

"It is the human soul on fire," he corrects, releasing the prince and pushing him away. As Bruce regains his balance, straightening his spine and lifting his chin and looking straight this way, he clarifies, "And that is not the same thing at all, is it, Bruce?"

 

 


End file.
